I am taking pictures,
Taking pictures with my eyes,
Lids for shutters,
From waking till twilight,
To sun-down from sun-rise,
I am catching memories,
Trapping them behind the nets of my lashes,
Squinting shut the trap doors,
While the rest of the world,
Disappears in flashes,
And there, within my dark room,
I am not merely fast asleep,
I am developing negatives into dreams,
Moments I cannot hold onto,
Into dreams that I can keep,
I am making little wooden frames,
Making frames in my head,
Curling browning corners held down,
Behind the glass lid of my eyes,
Keeping precious buried moments from ever being dead.
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Unreliable Narrator
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